


You and me are irresistible

by Neyiea



Series: You're still my favourite taboo [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Harley!Bruce, M/M, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:01:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29154753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: It’s been three months since Jerome found Bruce at his lowest point, and now it’s almost time for Jerome to pull Bruce right where he belongs; into the spotlight beside him.
Relationships: Jerome Valeska/Bruce Wayne
Series: You're still my favourite taboo [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2124822
Comments: 20
Kudos: 87





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amvris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amvris/gifts).



> A small offering of non-explicit content before we probably dive right back into explicit content, lol. 
> 
> Title from Irresistible by Temposhark, yet again.

“I need a finishing touch,” Bruce says as he spins away from the vanity, turning his face upward as if to show off what Jerome had been steadily watching the process of via the mirror. “Give me a smile?”

Jerome fleetingly gets that look on his face—the one that Bruce is pretty sure means he’s melted inside but is trying not to make it obvious—and he steps closer, hand reaching out to trace against a white cheek.

“You’ve already got a smile,” he tells Bruce with a smirk.

“You know what I mean.” Bruce leans into the touch of his hand, batting his eyelashes just-so. “Pick a colour.” He holds out his wrist where five swatches of red lipstick have been smeared—narrowed down from the dozen that Bruce had originally picked out—partway over dappled white greasepaint and partway over bare skin. “And paint it onto me.”

“Do you have a favourite of these?”

“The middle, I think, and the second from the top.” They were practically the same colour, but the first had a glossy finish, and the second was matte. 

“We’ll test the middle first.” Jerome says, leaning to grab the corresponding tube and a lip brush, coating the bristles in pigment. Then he takes hold of Bruce’s jaw in one hand and Bruce’s lips part slightly. Jerome’s eyebrows furrow in concentration as he applies the colour to Bruce’s mouth in steady strokes. When he’s done he hums under his breath, then leans past Bruce to grab something else from the vanity. 

“Just a little bit,” he murmurs, holding a different, thinner brush up to Bruce’s mouth. “Just to see.”

The brush first paints a fine edge around the inside of Bruce’s lips, then Bruce feels the slightest of sweeps against one corner of his mouth, then the other.

“Did you just widen my smile?” Extending it, in a way, almost like Jerome’s own had been. 

“Turn around and see for yourself.”

Bruce turns to face the mirror.

It is not so very different from the face-paint of a carnival two years ago, although Bruce had been hesitant in his first few weeks of playing with cosmetics and paints to replicate something that was, in his own mind, so easily recognizable. The white is heavier around his eyes and eventually fades into translucency, the eyes are lined in black, the colour on his lips is the red of fresh blood, though much more carefully applied this time, instead of gracelessly smeared into a frown. 

There is a black line where his upper and lower lip meet, and it extends a little beyond his natural lip-line to curl upward at the edges of his mouth. It makes his appearance almost doll-like. Bruce purses his lips together slightly to lessen the harshness of the line running along the seam of his lips while Jerome looms close behind him, watching Bruce’s reaction through the mirror.

“It’s like we match,” Bruce finds himself saying, leaning back on Jerome’s chest. “I love it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Bruce reaches out to grab the final element, a black domino mask. “I think this is it.”

Before he has a chance to see what everything looks like with the mask Jerome spins him around to kiss him, smearing the smile that he’d painted so dedicatedly onto Bruce’s mouth.

Bruce digs his hands into red hair and kisses back. 

It has become rarer for Bruce to spend time in Wayne Manor over the past three months, but it is almost unheard of, now, for him to be here alone. Privately he thinks that’s how Jerome manages to run around so much without getting snatched. Bruce is too distressed at the thought of losing Jerome—who wanted him and waited for him and adored him and praised him—to the clutches of Arkham to sit around and do _nothing_ while he causes chaos, so Bruce had started playing the part of the get-away-driver and bringing Jerome back home—which was safer and cleaner and had better first-aid kits than the hideaways that he otherwise bounced back and forth throughout—with him whenever a grand display of madness came to a close. 

Jerome went out. Jerome demolished whatever he felt like while making charismatic speeches that would have come off as disingenuous if it were literally anyone else speaking. Jerome proved that he could somehow keep slipping right out of the law-enforcements’ many hands. Jerome’s cult, probably silently growing in number thanks to all the recent activity, were going absolutely wild with how often he was publicly cutting the GCPD down to size.

And no one ever comes around to ask Bruce whether or not he’d noticed any suspicious activity or persons recently. No one ever comes around to ask why his car was seen speeding away from a crime scene. No one ever comes around except for Jerome. 

But sitting in his car and waiting in tense silence for a call was not Bruce’s idea of a good time.

“You should join me, then,” Jerome had said when Bruce had told him as such over a month ago, gently running a hand through Bruce’s hair. “I think you’d flourish in the spotlight, darlin’.” He’d presses a sly kiss to the corner of Bruce’s mouth, then. “Besides, it’ll be good for the lackeys to finally get a proper look at who’s supposed to be in charge in case I’m ever not around. There’s been a lot of gossip about who keeps sneaking in and out of my windows in the middle of the night.”

It had been something to think about. 

Bruce, however much he doesn’t particularly want to be, is a recognized figure in Gotham. Not only due to his family name and the most well-known tragedy of his life, but also thanks to a certain city-wide broadcast when he’d been thirteen years old and held tightly in Jerome’s sturdy arms for the very first time. 

He hadn’t wanted to step into any sort of spotlight only to get discovered right away, which lead to the interesting new pastime of what Jerome liked to call _playing dress-up_ , which Jerome was always, almost suspiciously, enthusiastic about. Although considering how nearly every session of _dress-up_ ended Bruce supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. Not that he doesn’t enjoy every conclusion just as much as Jerome does. He gets to try different styles, test entirely new experiences, and discover things that he likes that he never would have even considered experimenting with before, and afterwards Jerome is very thorough in his quest to prove how drop-dead gorgeous he believes Bruce to be. 

Someday Bruce is going to step out of his walk-in-closet in a little red dress and absolutely nothing else for the sole purpose of seeing how Jerome reacts to it. 

In the present one of Jerome’s hands slips up underneath of Bruce’s shirt—silky black with a recurring pattern of the four card suits outlined in red—to lay against the small of his back in a way that makes Bruce want to press even closer. When he does Jerome makes a low, happy sound, always so pleased for reciprocation. When Bruce playfully takes Jerome’s lower lip between his teeth he can feel Jerome shudder, and he feels his own smile stretch a little wider.

When Jerome pulls back his lips are smudged with the red of Bruce’s mouth—marked by Bruce, just like Bruce was marked by him with all the love-bites that Jerome had left behind on his chest and neck—and his dark eyes are glinting in the promising way that always seems to make Bruce’s breath catch.

“Such a pretty, dangerous little thing,” he murmurs, gaze riveted on Bruce’s face. “You and I are going to shake the foundations of the world.”

Bruce reels him in for another kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So glad you guys are enjoying this! <3  
> Just a heads-up that there actually is something in the end notes that's just way too short for me to post as a whole separate chapter, in case you don't tend to look down there without prompting.

“Wait,” Bruce whispers lowly. “Before we start, how about a good-luck kiss?”

Jerome whirls to face him, a smile immediately tugging at his lips. He opens his arms, ready to tug Bruce into them and give him exactly that. He’s only slightly thrown off when Bruce lifts up his red baseball bat between them. 

Cheeky little thing.

Still, Jerome presses a lingering kiss to the bat, avidly watching the pleased expression blooms on Bruce’s artfully painted face.

“And what about if I want a good-luck kiss, darlin’?” Jerome murmurs. The bat drops and Bruce steps closer, lifting a hand to Jerome’s cheek.

“Oh Jerome, did you really think I’d let you start without one?” Bruce asks, all sugar-sweet tone and softly fluttering lashes. Honestly, it kills Jerome every time that Bruce uses those doe-eyes of his to his advantage; his boy really did have the soft look of someone who ought to be easy to destroy, and Bruce was beginning to realize how he could use that as a tool for manipulation. Bruce leans up slightly to press a light, playful smack against one corner of Jerome’s mouth, then the other. “I’d have yanked on your tie to pull you in for a kiss if you didn’t ask for it.” He hovers for a moment, breathing against Jerome’s mouth, lips a hairsbreadth away. He pulls back before Jerome can close the distance, though maybe that’s for the best, considering that they both have things to do and how easy it is for them to get caught up in each other once they start making out. Bruce slips on his mask and, with a smile that shows off just a hint of his pearly teeth, he says, “Let’s knock ‘em dead, Jay.”

He’s so cute, and so capable. When they’re all finished up here Jerome is going to make him scream.

It goes off without a hitch, as expected, because Jerome had been even more thorough than usual while plotting out his moves five steps ahead of everyone else. Today was an important day, after all.

A revelation, even.

One of Gotham’s most nefarious contenders had a new addition to his routine, now. The match to his dynamite. The ruin to his wrath. They were a paired set who would transform Gotham into something new and unexpected. An immovable object and an unstoppable force melding together to decimate absolutely everyone and everything that attempted to stand against them.

All eyes and cameras might have been focused on Jerome, but it had been obvious that the androgynous figure in red and black next to him had been more than just another of his mindless Maniax. Bruce was a natural, as Jerome perhaps should have expected from someone born and raised into _royalty_. He had stage presence even when he wasn’t talking, and he a wasn’t a slouch when it came to using his bat. He was much more dangerous with his bare hands, but that would be a fun surprise to watch unfold some other time whenever Bruce felt it necessary to cast aside his restricting weapon of choice. 

Those beautiful, divine hands of his—made to rip into the world—would be bloody again someday, and Jerome would kiss them with the utmost reverence.

Bruce’s elevation above Jerome’s usual lackeys was made even more evident when Jerome had pulled Bruce close enough to smack a kiss onto his cheek right as their old pal Jim Gordon appeared on the scene, too far away to tell who was underneath the mask and makeup even if he used to know Bruce so well.

But now there is no one who knows Bruce like _Jerome_ knows Bruce. Likewise, there is no one who knows Jerome like _Bruce_ knows Jerome. Jerome privately thinks that it was always meant to be this way. He and Bruce were always going to know each other best. Jerome’s breaking out of Arkham and then finding Bruce in the club by chance was merely their destinies aligning ahead of time. 

He’s never been more sure of anything. 

They make their escape together, Jerome catching sight of a thrilled smile on Bruce’s mouth and feeling even more enlivened than usual as he turns the GCPD into a pack of scrambling fools. When they safely make it back to Jerome’s current foxhole unscathed Bruce says, with a cheery tone that Jerome still associates as being _rare_ for him,

“That was more fun than I thought it would be.”

Jerome huffs out a laugh and slings an arm over Bruce’s shoulders, pulling him closer just to have him close. 

“Did you really think that after all of this buildup I wouldn’t show you a good time when I finally took you out?” He’s been waiting for this day for more than three months; ever since Bruce brought him home from the club. “I’m hurt, Bruce.”

“I’m sorry for doubting you, Jay,” Bruce says in return, amusement evident in his tone, before pressing a fleeting kiss to the side of Jerome’s mouth. “I should have realized that you’d make sure our first time was memorable.”

Jerome snickers at the obvious innuendo, pulse starting to race from more than just victory and adrenaline.

“You really should have, darlin’. I’m all about laughs and fun times. I am, after all, the Clown Prince of Crime.”

A royal status to match Bruce’s _Prince of Gotham_ , and he hadn’t even been the one to come up with it.

A bright laugh rushes out of Bruce’s red mouth and he lifts a hand over it, as if he could force the sound back inside to be smothered, as all of his laughs usually are.

Jerome just stares at him, wide-eyed.

“No one actually calls you that,” Bruce remarks dryly. There’s a beat of silence, and his eyebrows begin to raise when Jerome doesn’t immediately answer. “Do people call you that? Really?” His voice shakes as if he’s on the verge of laughter again. “The _Clown Prince of Crime?_ ”

“You laughed,” Jerome murmurs, feeling about ready to maybe lay down his life, or some equally drastic demonstration of the fond feeling surging inside of him. “You laughed, and it wasn’t even in response to one of my jokes!”

“I mean, Jerome, sometimes your jokes aren’t very fun—”

Jerome wraps his arms around Bruce and cuts him off with a kiss.

He can feel Bruce chuckling softly against his mouth, and it’s almost enough to make Jerome lose his cool. He breaks the kiss, fingers running up into Bruce’ curls, and he stares into Bruce’s sparking eyes.

“Laughter suits you,” he says lowly, genuinely. “I’d like to hear it more often.”

Bruce fleetingly gets that look on his face—the one that Jerome is pretty sure means that he’s said something innately _right_ even when he hasn’t had the chance to weigh the words and think it all through before speaking—and he lightly presses his forehead against Jerome’s.

“I already smile more often, now that I’m with you,” Bruce admits softly. Jerome’s heart skips wildly. “I’m sure I’ll start to laugh more often, too.”

“I’m going to make sure that you do,” Jerome promises, feeling oddly breathless.

They lean into each other again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Oh,” Bruce murmurs as he unfolds the morning paper, stepping further into the room. “We made it onto the front page. Professor Pyg has been all over the cover of the Gazette recently, so we must have made an impression to boot him off of it.”
> 
> “I cannot believe that you are the sort of person who looks at actual newspapers as if you’re a hundred years old, instead of looking news up on your thousand-dollar phone like a reasonable teenager.”
> 
> “What can I say?” Bruce ducks down to press a kiss to Jerome’s cheek. “I’m an old soul.” He settles himself in Jerome’s lap, and Jerome’s arms immediately wrap around his waist. “Gotham’s Clown Prince of Crime,” he begins, and his voice wavers again, still evidently not over the title bestowed onto Jerome by the Gazette. “Showed a new ace up his sleeve Thursday afternoon after taking over a charity gala, so on and so forth, we were there. All who were in attendance are left questioning the identity of… The Harlequin.”
> 
> “The Harlequin?” 
> 
> “Named after the mute character in a pantomime, who is typically masked and dressed in a diamond-patterned costume.” Bruce cocks his head to the side, eyes squinting. “I wonder what they would have called me if I wore hearts, or clubs, or spades.”
> 
> “Queen of Hearts,” Jerome coos, pressing a kiss into his hair. “King of Clubs. Ace of Spades.”
> 
> “Okay, maybe _The Harlequin_ isn’t so bad after all if those were my other options. Although I suppose I could have tolerated Ace of Spades, being the ace up your sleeve and all.” Bruce leans back against Jerome’s chest, folding the newspaper into itself. “I’m going to have to buy more diamond patterned clothes, now that I’ve apparently got a theme.”
> 
> “Great, I love it when we get to play dress-up.”
> 
> “Trust me,” Bruce says dryly, shifting in Jerome’s lap so that he can lock eyes with him. He sets the newspaper aside and playfully runs a hand up into red hair. “I’ve noticed.”


End file.
